


"A Bit of Manly Therapy"

by Vanishershade



Category: Life on Mars
Genre: Adult Situations/Rough Play, Bondage and Dicipline, M/M, Other, Role Playing, Scary Gene, Skeevy Nightclub
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-21
Updated: 2012-11-21
Packaged: 2017-11-15 01:06:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/521451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vanishershade/pseuds/Vanishershade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You're lookin' at me like a hot lunch, Tyler.  No real men back in Hyde?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	"A Bit of Manly Therapy"

**Author's Note:**

> I only have a little LOM fic done. This one is a repost; the others will be new to AO3. I am a good enough writer to pull off this difficult subject matter, but then, I have some direct experience with the subject matter. But this is rough stuff, kiddies: read at your own risk!

“A Bit of Manly Therapy” 

by Vanishershade (madmonkeyshow)

 

Gene Hunt looked very good indeed. Black was his color, Sam thought as they walked. It had never occurred to him, in all the time he had spent in 1973, that Gene might dress very differently on his own time.  
A black leather jacket, shoulders set rolled forward, apehanger style. A motorcycle jacket, nothing like Sam’s own jacket, with sensible button closures, but something a biker would own. Sam watched as Gene lit a cheroot, not his usual Player’s brand smoke.  
“Well, Saturday night really brings out the wild man in you, doesn’t it?” Sam commented with a smirk.  
Gene raised an eyebrow at the younger detective as Sam took in the rest of Gene’s ensemble: a clean, off-white mesh strappy tee. Black denim pants, boot cuts, not flares, snug on his long legs. Battered old Doctor Marten’s boots with bootstraps, each of the steel toes sporting a shaved oval, and the exposed metal polished to a brilliant shine.  
Sam’s eye was drawn to the small insignia patch over Gene’s heart on the zippered jacket. He recognized the winged skull, and the black and white legend beneath it: Filthy Few. But the rest of the insignia had clearly been removed from the body of the jacket.  
Could it be? Could DCI Gene Hunt, member of the Manchester Constabulary, be in the Hell’s Angels? Sam considered the time period, and the overall likelihood. He knew Gene had been in the Navy, and that the early Angels were all military men. But he was unsure if this extended to Military men in the U.K. Outsiders would be unlikely to even be familiar with all the nuances of biker ascetic, and certainly not with the significance of the Filthy Few patch, a fearsome marker for those in the know. Perhaps Gene had liberated the jacket from its original owner.  
“You’re lookin’ at me like a hot lunch, Tyler,” Gene said easily. “No real men back in Hyde?”  
Sam flushed to his ear tips. “Where is this club you told me about? We’ve been walking for ages. We should ‘ave taken the bloody car.”  
“Don’t panic, Dorothy. It’s not much farther. I can put yeh in a fireman’s carry an’ haul you the rest of the way, if you like.” Gene grinned at the image. “I could get a decent look at yer arse, then.”  
Sam bristled at the comment. The homoerotic dialog had begun a few weeks back. Sam didn’t strictly object to it, but he did find it chafing on occasion. Particularly since Gene had failed to act on any of his lewd suggestions. So far, their personal status remained unchanged ~ friendly antagonist co-workers, nothing more.  
Sam caught a glimpse of where they were obviously headed. It was a long, brick building at the end of the lane, a bank of garages making up the bulk of its lower floor beneath grimy second-floor windows. Men milled about outside, all of them big, rough-looking characters. And yes, a lot of them had choppers.  
Sam stopped. He folded his arms and glared at Gene in the glow from the nearby streetlamp, his holly brown eyes black with shadow and muted rage.  
“A biker bar? You have got to be kidding me,” Sam spat, consternation marking his tone. “You said it was a nightclub—”  
“’S a nightclub. ‘S’ night, isn’t it?” Gene cast a pointed glance towards the star strewn sky.  
San huffed away, rolling his eyes and preparing for an uncomfortable evening.  
Gene strode after Sam, clapping a hand on his back. “Don’t fret, Tyler. You’ll be safe, as long as you’re with me.”  
“Delightful,” Sam said morosely.  
The joint was not strictly a bar, Sam realized once inside. The space was like a partitioned – off cave, separated into different zones by unique floorings. Some of the floor was dedicated to table space, some to a dance area. There was a bar, but by far the greatest area of the place was dedicated to the group of motorcycle repair bays along the forward facing wall. Bikes of every description and in every state of assembly were here, hanging from chain winches or being actively worked on by hand. The work appeared to be being done by the patrons themselves.  
Sam drew a few longing stares from the assembly at first. But after it became apparent that he was with Gene, these fell off significantly.  
Sam looked around, his curiosity piqued by the unusual setting.  
“Shit. What is this place, Guv?” Sam asked over his shoulder. Turning, Sam saw that Gene was in earnest conversation with a shorter, thicker man in one of the repair bays. He caught Sam’s eye and waved him over.  
Sam ambled over to Gene. “This ‘ere is Fatkat,” Gene told him. Fatkat offered a callused hand, and Sam shook that hand vigorously. The bald biker offered up a smile with significant gaps.  
Gene gripped Fatkat’s shoulder, giving his friend a shake. “Fatkat is othing’the finishin’ touches on me 741.”  
“Um, 741?” Sam said quizzically.  
Gene and Fatkat shared a knowing chuckle. “Boy’s pretty, ‘unt, but “e don’t know a thing. Indian 741, boy, American military motorbike. Yanks shipped a shitload of ‘em ‘ere durin’ WW2. I been trickin’ it out, some, replaced the motor. Standard issue didn’t have much kick.”  
Sam leaned back slightly to look at Gene. “You ride, Guv?”  
“Yeah, I do. And I’d be the one fixin’ it too, if I a’ad the time.” Gene took Sam’s arm and led him over to the bike in Fatkat’s repair bay. It was black, glossy, the words “U.S. Army” and a bright white star painted on its tank.  
Fatkat lovingly caressed the rawhide leather of the saddlebags. “These are replacements. Originals are ‘ard to lay hands on, but they’re exact copies. I took some liberties with the ammo boxes.” Fatkat opened one of the khaki colored fender mounted boxes, to reveal a hogsleg rifle secreted within, along with its substantial shells in a brass mount, this on a background of purple crushed velvet. The second box contained a mobile bar with scotch, vodka and a shaker, along with glasses and cocktail supplies.  
A tiny but complete field medical kit stowed under the seat, along with a torch and a stunningly small but well equipped repair kit for the bike.  
“All that’s custom,” Gene said, pleasure in his voice. “Me man Fatkat’s a bleedin’ genius. I’ve got seventy five ‘orsepower now, what with the new motor and all. A good soldier ‘as to be ready for anything.”  
Sam folded his arms. “Impressive.” He watched as Gene congratulated his friend on a job well done. He took careful note of the cues between them, of their body language.  
Soon after, Gene and Sam made their way to the bar. Sam made it a point not to drink too much that night—this would be a bad place to be vulnerable. Gene was his usual, expansive self. He seemed to know everyone by name, and greeted many people with a view hullo or a wave.  
Sam leaned back on the bar, his elbows resting on its buffed, diamond plate surface. He glanced up at Gene, who had taken off his jacket and set it on a stool beside him.  
“Gene,” Sam began.  
“Eh?”  
“You’re gay, aren’t you?”  
Gene took a drink. “Depends what you mean,” he said, frowning slightly.  
“Oh, so there’s more than one way to be gay?” Sam looked at Gene defiantly. “Exactly how do you define ‘gay,’ Guv?”  
Gene made a shrug with his entire body, but by hardly moving at all. “Well, when you say ‘gay,’ you mean a poof, like Steven Warren, a blouse wearin,’ othing -swillin,’ boy chasin’nonce. I’m not that. I am a man, who ‘appens to occasionally prefer the company of other men to that of women. I got othing’ against birds, mind you—been with enough of ‘em. They got nice lines, they smell good. But sometimes, I don’t want the complication of bein’ with a girl, yh’know what I mean?”  
“Not in the slightest,” Sam admitted in exasperation.  
Gene perched his chin on his fist. “You’re a piece of work, you know that, Tyler? I mean, girls ‘ave an expectation of a bloke, once they get involved. Not all of ‘em, but many of ‘em. A gal expects to be taken care of. You’re supposed to watch what you say, so’s you don’t ‘urt their feelings. You’re supposed to provide, keep clean…with another bloke, you got none of that. Two blokes pair off, they can go out, play darts and fuck each other in the car on the way back from the pub, and it don’t ‘ave to mean anything. Girls want everything to mean somthin.’”  
Sam nursed his drink. “So, what you’re saying is, that because women have an expectation of a relationship, and not just the desire for anonymous sex, you find men to be more convivial partners?”  
“I don’t know,” Gene admitted. “You know, Sam, you got a way of putting everythin’ that sounds twice as complicated as when it was said the first time.”  
Sam actually laughed. He was slightly surprised by Gene’s admission, but not as much as he thought he would be. He looked Gene in the eye. “Do you fancy me, Gene Hunt?”  
Gene made a scoffing sound. “No.”  
“Liar.”  
“I don’t.”  
“Yes, you do.”  
“ALRIGHT!! I FANCY YOU, YOU MANKY GIT!” Gene shouted at Sam. “I swear by all the angels of the bloody Heavenly Host, you are enough to drive a sane man to pure distraction!”  
Sam set his glass on the bar, ignoring Gene’s furious bull-breathing beside him. “Well, I must say, I am surprised. I’m flattered as well. Bringing me here, revealing so much of your unspoken self to me…I feel privileged.”  
Gene cocked his large head to one side. “Now,” he said, his voice as warm and rich as good scotch, “if you want to say ‘no,’ say it now. I’ll make you do nowt yeh don’t want to.”  
“But Gene, I am not gay.”  
Gene Hunt was rarely taken aback. “You mean to tell me that you, the most effeminate man I ‘ave ever encountered, the man who I know I’ve been pickin’ up signals from for the better part of a year now…are you telling me I read you wrong, all this time?!”  
Sam smiled coyly. “I’m bi, Gene. Boys, girls…it’s all the same to me.”  
Gene grabbed Sam’s shoulders. From his expression, Gene looked ready to maim him. Instead, he kissed Sam deeply. A cheer went up from the floor as the kiss went on, and the chant was picked up: “Get a Room! Get a Room! Get a Room!”  
Gene swept Sam up in his arms. Sam gave him a real smile. “”So, where are we going?”  
“Upstairs, for a bit of manly therapy,” Gene said. And with that he carried Sam up the metal steps to the second floor. 

***

 

Gene carried Sam up to the second floor of the club, if the space could be called that. Unlike the first floor, this one was made up of many numbered suites. Gene set Sam on his feet at the head of the steps, took his wrist and led him over to a particular suite door.  
Gene unlocked the door with a single key on a poison orange fob.  
“The answer to your question would be ‘yes,’ by the way,” Gene supplied as he led the way inside. He switched on the light beside the door.  
Sam looked around. The suite displayed a paint job that could only have occurred in the seventies. A huge mural of the setting sun dominated the wall behind the bed, the orange sky wrapping around the walls with streaks of illuminated purple clouds at random intervals. The coverlet matched the walls, and the carpet was a vivid purple. There was a small, white painted dresser against the left hand wall, and a very tall wardrobe cabinet flanked by the nightstand. On the opposite side of the bed what was apparently the water closet door, open slightly onto darkness.  
Gene turned to stare at Sam for a moment, eying him fixedly, a small smile playing about the corners of his lips. Sam looked back into eyes of green, the color of the ocean on an overcast day. Gene had missed a few barbers’ visits, and his dark golden hair was slightly longer than usual, shot through with pale highlights. Sam found himself wondering what it would feel like to run his fingers through it…  
Sam decided in that moment not to make it too easy. Fighting for every point he wanted to make with Gene had become habitual. So when the larger man moved in and stroked the side of Sam’s neck, Sam dropped his eyes and said coyly,  
“I…I didn’t say you could touch me.”  
“I didn’t ask,” Gene said simply. He slid his hand behind Sam’s head and kissed him hard, long and deep. Sam tensed briefly, ready to put up a struggle, but his body began to surrender to Gene’s desire, and his own. Sam let himself be led over to the garishly made up bed, and soon the two of them were in a steamy tangle of discarded clothing and hot flesh, negotiating for position. Sam caught his breath at the sight of Gene’s fully engorged and substantial dick, and gasped as he seized hold of both of them and started rubbing, his hands obviously experienced in the inflicting of pleasure.  
Sam felt his body responding, resisting the urge to let his mind run things as it usually did. As a creature of thought as much as action, Sam’s instincts were to try and analyse what was happening, experience it outside of him, as an abstract. But this was not that kind of experience, and Sam found himself swept up on the crest of a wave of sensation too steep to override by sheer intellect, and very soon found that he did not wish to.  
They rode together, bodies locked in rhythmic motion, friction and heat and passion rising, sensation magnified, emotion sealed as never before for either of them. They rode to the crest together, climaxed together, came screaming together.  
And in the sticky, sweaty aftermath, Sam knew that, for the first time in his life, he was truly in love with another human being. He nestled in Gene’s arms; listening to the sound of his body finding its way to well earned rest, and kissed him gently.  
“No one can know,” Gene said softly. “This place, you, me…this is our secret, now. No one ‘ere gives a toss about who we are, or what we do on the outside. As long as that world stays outside, and this one in ‘ere. Got it?”  
“I understand,” Sam said. And he did, in a way. The expression on Gene’s face spoke volumes, a gaze that told a thousand tales of secrets kept, of a circumspect life maintained on the periphery of public glare. Something that could ruin him, if it were to come out.  
Sam realized how different the world he had been raised in was, in a future/past where a girl often took it as a sign of male civility, if her boyfriend had dated a boy or two before her.  
For men in Gene Hunt’s world, there was no equivalent experience. You were either a pouf or a real man—and there was no payoff in being a pouf. You did not get points for being a good listener, or a shoulder to cry on for your faghag girlfriends. You were only a faggot, likely to get your head handed to you by someone you once called a friend once they found out.  
Sam rested his head on Gene’s chest. He was still a bit stunned, at how rapidly things had changed between them. For months, Sam had held back his feelings towards his taciturn, irascible boss; sure that he was mistaking Gene’s less-than-subtle cues for his usual homoerotic baiting. Feelings that were at odds with their apparent, daily antagonism. Gene had been married for years, still was, as far as Sam knew. He wondered if it was somehow a marriage of convenience for both of them. Perhaps she knew where her husband spent his nights…  
“I’m gonna get us a bottle downstairs,” Gene told Sam, giving him a big, wet smack on the forehead. Gene cleaned up roughly, pulled on his clothes. “Right back, Dorothy,” he said with a genuine grin.  
“Okay,” Sam said.  
Gene took his temporary leave. Sam sat up, contented and happy in his body for the first time in a very long time.  
Sam looked blearily at the tall object standing mute sentry beside the WC door. How he could have avoided noticing the ‘X’ shaped cross, with its studded, heavy leather restraints, was beyond him at the moment. But he supposed it would be an amusing topic of conversation once Gene got back. A large purple dog dish was beside the cross on the floor.  
Sam got up. He needed a piss, and a quick wash. He walked over to the mirrored door, groping inside the darkened bathroom doorway for the switch before entering.  
Ray Carling was trussed up in the bathtub.  
Sam all but leapt out of his skin at the site of Ray. His blond hair was tousled, a red ball gag forced into his mouth.  
“CHRIST! What the hell are you doing there?!” Sam cried, his back slamming against the doorframe.  
Ray made a muffled groan behind the gag. His body was bundled in a black leather sack, wrapped up in belts and multiple cords.  
Sam heard the door to the room behind him open and shut, quickly. Nude and beyond angry, Sam advanced on Gene.  
“What the hell is Ray doing trussed up in the WC?” he demanded to know.  
Gene adopted an expression of mixed consternation and confusion. “What? He still about? I’d figured ‘e’d ‘ave worked ‘is way loose by now…” 

***

Gene stumped over to the bathroom door, arms akimbo.  
“Carling!” he shouted, shoving the door open wide. “I expected you gone by this time!”  
Sam snagged a robe, and peeked around Gene’s ample shoulder to look at the bound man.  
Ray made a muffled howl of clear frustration, struggling in his bindings in the claw foot tub.  
Gene folded his arms, leaning against the upper portion of the doorframe. “Ray’s a bit of a Houdini,” he confided to Sam. “Well, ‘e is, usually. Ray’s known for bein’ able to work ‘is way out of police cuffs. Before now, anyway. Alright, Raymundo, pipe down!” Gene sauntered over and removed Ray’s gag.  
Ray Carling coughed, his rough face reddening. He glared at Gene, squinting up at him with one aqua eye.  
“’Ow am I supposed t’ get loose when you truss me up in this pissin’ body bag?! I could ‘ardly bloody breathe!”  
“Well, you’re the best lookin’ dead man I ever saw,” Gene said, perching on the edge of the tub  
Ray and Sam locked eyes at that moment. Sam was angry that Ray was there at all—he had felt that he and Gene were finally breaking through to their genuine feelings, really making a connection. To see that Gene had brought Ray here for some sort of bondage liaison was nearly disappointing. But of course, it was hardly the Savoy…  
“Gene,” Sam barked, and he was shocked at the level of petulance in his tone, “I asked you what he was doing here?!”  
“Yeah, I could ask you the same thing, Guv,” Ray grumbled.  
Gene, who had set about undoing Ray’s bonds, glared at his DS. “We been gettin’ together for years now,” he informed Sam. “I take ‘im, sort ‘im out now and then. Ray needs a firm hand.”  
“Ray needs a muzzle and a choke chain,” Sam said sulkily  
Ray got to his feet, and Sam was both amused and embarrassed to see that Ray was wearing an ivory leather corset, along with shiny patent leather and lace trimmed shorts, in the same ivory shade. But the topper was the boots: thigh high, laced up the back and with Chantilly lace stockings, plus a matching garter belt sewn with seed pearls.  
Sam did not know whether to laugh or feel badly for Ray, who looked markedly uncomfortable. Sam found he could imagine Ray and Gene getting together, but never the circumstances that could lead to Ray’s present attire.  
Gene suddenly shot out a beefy mitt and seized Ray’s throat, just above the d-ringed ivory leather collar he wore.  
“What ‘ave I told you about your fucking attitude?!” Gene bellowed, his voice ringing off the tile and porcelain in the small bathroom. He slammed Ray’s face against the back wall, holding it pinned there, his fingers gripping Ray’s choppy blond headed scalp with bruising force.  
Sam winced. “Now, Gene, wait a minute—“  
Gene raised his free left hand for silence. “Zip it, Tyler,” he said warningly.  
Tyler zipped it.  
Gene leaned in close to Ray’s ear. “Did you have a question regardin’ DI Tyler’s presence here, Carling?”  
“N-no, Guv—“ Ray all but sobbed.  
“ARE YOU CERTAIN OF THAT, DS CARLING?!” Gene pressed the side of Ray’s head harder against the wall. “Because it sounded from your tone as if you were questioning me. Were you questioning me, Raymond?!!”  
“NO! No, sir, I swear I was not questioning you!” Now Ray was crying, a sight Sam thought he would never witness. It was awful.  
Gene hauled Ray out of the tub. He dragged him a short distance to the large purple dog dish by the door. As Sam watched, Gene shoved Ray to his knees, unbuttoned his fly, unpacked his substantial dick, and took a long piss into the bowl.  
Sam swallowed with an audible click. “Gene, this isn’t necessary,” he said, placing a staying hand on Gene’s arm. “It’s too much. Please, stop.”  
Gene looked hard into Sam’s light brown eyes. He glanced down at Ray, kneeling on the floor, his palms planted wide, still weeping.  
Gene nodded once. He cuffed Ray across the top of his head. “Clean it up, shitbag!” he snapped.  
Ray scrambled to do as he was bidden, taking the bowl into the bathroom and dumping it down the loo.

Gene watched Ray from the spot beside the bed, arms folded. Sam felt like a man standing on the edge of a precipice. He was aware that men like Gene and Ray often shared an unacknowledged bent for this type of lifestyle; how many tough guys had he met over the years, who took out their aggressions with other, willing partners? Quite a few, to tell the truth.  
With men like Ray and Gene in 1973, there would be few available outlets to indulge in such behavior, except within the borders of a marginalized community. Like biker queens, for example. It would have to be a group who could look out for themselves, was small in number and without a large overlap of people who might recognize one in the outside world. Sam guessed that if he and Maya had given in to a little fetish play back in 2006, perhaps he would not have ended up a basket case, bored with his job and ready to jump out of his skin…or off of a parking garage.  
Ray washed out the bowl, using the bar of Palmolive on the basin and rinsing it out several times. He then knelt down, took the bowl in his teeth, and brought it to its original spot on the floor, in front of the ‘x’ shaped cross. Ray then crawled on all fours over to where Gene stood, and began lightly licking at the toe of his boot. Sam watched with a kind of dread - filled fascination as Ray cleaned the boot with precise attention. Gene watched him as well, with a quiet aire of appraisal that let Sam know this was something he had observed many times before.  
When he was done with the task, Ray put his head down on the tips of Gene’s boots, his eyes tightly shut, his hands pressed against the small of his back. Gene reached down and stroked Ray’s tousled blond hair with long, elegant fingers.  
Gene stood straight and lit a fag. “Sam spared you some pretty rough treatment tonight. I expect you should like to thank him.”  
Gene’s statement made all the spit dry up in Sam’s mouth. He put up his hands, starting to refuse whatever Gene expected Ray to offer him. Ray scared the shit out of him, truth be told, and Sam imagined he was already indignant about his having found out about the clandestine relationship between himself and Gene. He did not wish Ray to have any more reason to be upset with him.  
But Ray looked up at Gene with his stunning blue eyes, and Gene nodded once. Ray dropped his head and crawled over to kneel before Sam. He began gently nosing open Sam’s robe, his lips planting tiny kisses along the inside of Sam’s thigh as he moved up.  
Sam almost stepped away, but this time Gene stayed him with a hand on his arm.  
“No, let him. ’E’s got a real talent for it. Besides, ‘e’s actin’ on me will, not ‘is own. ‘E won’t ‘urt yeh. Trust me on that.”  
Sam looked at Gene, then down at Ray. He did not withdraw, and allowed Ray to proceed despite his own trepidation.  
Ray was an artist, he had to admit. He took Sam’s length into his mouth, Sam acutely aware of the feel of Ray’s teeth and tongue. But Ray knew what he was doing, and Sam quickly found himself wrangled to the edge of ecstasy. Sam marveled at Ray’s ability to predict how his body would respond, and how to match his rhythms precisely.  
Sam groaned, his body shuddering in response to Ray’s attentions. Gene came up behind Sam, his strong hands gripping his shoulders, and Sam found himself transported by the sensation of his robe sliding to the floor, then the feeling of Gene’s muscular yet fleshy body moving behind his. The buttons of Gene’s fly against Sam’s hips intensified his already sharpened responses, and the subtle sound of the buttons being disengaged was electrifying.  
Gene planted kisses along the back of Sam’s neck, and at the base of his hairline. Gene opened Sam with a finger slicked with lube, not for the first time that night. Sam howled and sobbed, caught between the two sets of sensation his body was wrested between. Sam shrieked as Gene impaled him from behind, hot flesh lancing into him. It was agony and searing pleasure, the waves rolling through his body, a lake of shuddering mercury, cold and boiling at once. The sensations were almost beyond endurance for Sam, his incessant internal dialogue shut down for a moment in the tidal wave of pure passion.  
Sam clutched at Gene’s cornsilk hair with painful force. He was almost washed away between these two fierce men working for his pleasure. Sam was half terrified that Ray would devour him, despite Gene’s assurances to the contrary. He got a strange image in his mind of living in a house with Gene, a perfect little cottage in the country, with a thatched roof and a garden…and a cage in a back room to keep their pet Ray, chained and collared and ready to service both of them.  
Sam screamed as his body was shaken by orgasm, and Ray swallowed as Sam surrendered up his seed into his mouth. Gene outdid them both in volume, the room barely able to contain his booming roar. He caught Sam as he collapsed in his arms, cords suddenly cut, and Ray moved over him, his mouth finding Sam’s and kissing him.  
Gene slapped Ray across the top of his head. “Did I fucking tell you to kiss him, you twonk?!” Gene grabbed a fistful of Ray’s hair, yanking his head back.  
Sam shook his head, sitting on the floor at Gene’s feet. “No, Gene, don’t— Please!” Sam tried to seize Gene’s arm before he could swing again, wincing as Gene landed a hard slap on Ray’s cheek. He shoved Ray back to slam against the wall, tucked in and buttoned his fly, glowering down at Ray like a giant.  
“Get your arse in that triple-damned bath before I fuck your gob through the back of your skull, you piece of shite!” he roared at Ray.  
Sam reached over, trying to soothe Ray with a touch, but he was crestfallen. Ray crawled away, into the WC, and closed the door behind him.  
Sam looked up at Gene. “Goddamn it, Gene,” he whispered, “’e wasn’t tryin’ to hurt me…”  
“You think I don’t know that!” Gene ran his hand through his hair. He let out a string of expletives and marched into the rest room. Sam heard a series of muffled hits and a long session at the basin, the water running forcefully. Gene came out a few minutes later, hair and face wet, smelling of cheap bar soap and Brut and his face as dark as a stormcloud.  
“I know ’e weren’t tryin’ t’ ‘urt yeh,” Gene said. He got ice out of the small refrigerator’s freezer and rubbed his bruised knuckles with it. “’E were out of line. I tell ‘im what to do. “E don’t think up anythin’ on ‘is own. Toppin’ from the bottom, that one, always.”  
Sam got to his feet. He recovered the robe and slipped it back on. “You were a bit hard on him, Guv,” Sam admitted. “I think he was just going with the vibe. God, the look on his face when you hit him…” Sam went over and put his hands on Gene’s hips.  
“Ray’s an ‘ard boy. ‘E needs ‘ard treatment.” Gene tossed away the lump of ice. He touched Sam’s cheek. Gene looked down at Sam with heavy-lidded eyes. “Were you really shocked, by what you saw tonight?”  
“Yes…and no, actually. Part of it makes a grim kind of sense.” He laid his head on Gene’s shoulder. Sam realized, likely for the first time, how dangerous a man Gene Hunt may have truly been. The thought was disturbing, even as it sent a little thrill down his spine.  
Gene looked thoughtful for a moment. “D’yer think less of me, after what you’ve seen?” he put to Sam.  
Sam blinked at the question. “Well, no, of course not. Why would I think less of you? Besides, this is what you brought me here to show me, isn’t it? Your true self?”  
Gene stepped away from Sam. He went over and curled up in the rust colored wing chair. “People don’t always like the truth, when they see it,” Gene said softly.  
Something in Gene’s tone made Sam take notice. He perched on the corner of the bed and watched, as Gene regarded the carpet with eyes that were unreadable. He spoke in a voice that Sam did not recognize as that of the mythic Gene Hunt.  
“I guess I should’ve told you what I was about, when I realized how you felt,” Gene said. “Sorry,” he added.  
“Gene,” Sam said, as carefully as he could, “You don’t have to apologise to me, for anything.”  
“Yeah, I do,” Gene said bitterly. He forked his damp hair back from his brow. “I’m a bleedin’ mess,” Gene admitted in a constricted voice. “Been one, for years. Me missus…she weren’t pleased, when she found out about Ray and me. Truth is, I knew Ray first. We were Navy men together. Ray n’ me, we’ve known each other thirty years, maybe a little longer. I’ve only been married twenty-four...”  
Gene laughed, a harsh sound in the small room. “Me missus…she weren’t pleased, when she found out ‘ow close Ray and I really were. You know what I mean, naturally.”  
Sam nodded, slowly. He thought about what such an admission would mean, coming from a man in 1973, with the moirés and values of someone born in the 1930’s. Gene’s take on his own personal conduct would be very different than that of a child of the 70’s like Sam. There might be a level of cultural self - loathing and guilt associated with his actions that might never be acknowledged out loud.  
Gene steepled his chin on his fingers. “We’d been married about two years,” he said almost absently. “I were a young woodentop, working the Northeast district. Ray joined up a few months after I did, ‘e were a little behind me. “’arry Woolfe were me commanding officer in the Navy, and a DI when I were on the street…”  
Sam tensed slightly at the mention of Harry Woolfe. It struck him, how hard it must have been on Gene, to draw down on Harry the day when he had to do so. He had known him for so long, and been a young officer to him more than once.  
Gene got up and recovered the bottle he had gotten earlier. He snatched a glass from the night table and poured, swallowing the liquor down rapidly.  
“I were makin’ a life for myself, gettin’ready for a bright future.” Gene spoke as he paced, a very big tiger in a very small cage. “Things were good. I was ambitious, and I ‘ad no reason not to be…”  
Gene knocked back another drink, clearly fortifying himself for whatever was to come. “Ray and I still got together, when we could. It were just sex - in cars, in parks, in the locker room…we were just unwindin, sheddin’ off a bit of stress.  
“The missus ‘ad her bridge club once a week. She were a reliable woman, and kept a strict schedule. So, when we ‘ad the place to ourselves, we would take advantage. Me wife never changed her plans, so ‘ow were we t’ know that while we were en flagrante dilecto on the living room settee, both of us drunk, Ray goin’ down on me as fast and ‘ard as he could, that the loo ’ad flooded at Margaret’s, and the whole club had to be relocated at the last minute? ’Ow could I know, that the wife and ‘er girlfriends ‘ad been standin’ there, watchin’ us, for minutes?”  
Sam grimaced. There was an element of grief in Gene’s tone that was difficult to listen to. He watched as Gene drank again, too much, too fast. When next he spoke, he sounded defeated, resigned. “She has never forgiven me. I was afraid at first, that she’d expose me. But that wasn’t what she wanted. What she wanted, what she got, was a life of ease and respectability. She wouldn’t let me go, wouldn’t entertain the notion of divorce or counseling. Agnes got ‘er weapon, and she’s been pummeling me with it ever since.”  
Gene made a small shrug with his brows. “After that, she always wanted to know if I was with anyone else other than Ray. I told ‘er that I was in the ‘abit of givin’ it up t’ ‘arry Woolfe on demand in the executive lavatory at CID. She told me that that counted as career expediency, and was not a strike against me.”  
Sam shook his head. Twenty plus years in a loveless marriage, with a woman who hated him enough never to let him go. Sam gestured to the bathroom. “What about ‘im? How does ‘e feel about it?”  
“Guilty,” Gene provided. “Miserable, and guilty. A shame, too. Ray was a fun fuck, before that night. I never blamed ‘im for it, but ‘e does a good enough job of that on ‘is own.”  
After watching the events of earlier that evening, Sam had to bite back a few comments Gene might not have appreciated on his true state of mind regarding the collapse of his marriage. But the story might end up having an impact on the future Sam planned with Gene. After all, he did not plan to be Gene’s amiable fuck-buddy like Ray—he wanted the man. Which meant he would have to go toe – to – toe with the apparently formidable Mrs. Hunt.  
Gene had resorted to drinking directly from the bottle. “Ever since, me and Ray ‘ave kept together, quietly. Because we know each other, and because Ray feels like he needs absolution, and I feel all right dishin’ a little out to him. So, don’t feel too badly for ‘im—if I weren’t leanain’ on ‘im for kissin’ you, it would be for some stupid cock-up with a suspect or summat. ‘E likes it, Sam. Like a junkie likes dope.”  
Gene slowly shook his head. “But d’yer want to know the saddest thing of all? Ray loves me. Worships me, actually. Knows ‘e can never ‘ave me, knows I wouldn’t ‘ave him, in the broad light of day. But never ‘as stopped ‘im.”  
Sam rubbed the back of his neck. Well, at least he had a clear idea of his real competition, now. He loved Gene, and did not wish to share him. But if Ray was no more than a pet dog, it might not be necessary to strike him entirely from the equation. It might even keep things fun, abusing Ray on the side. No, the major player would be Mrs. Agnes Hunt, the human equivalent of a barnacle. Scraping her off might be more than problematic, particularly since Gene seemed just as determined to keep her at his side as she did him. Maybe it was almost like a persecution complex, something subconscious on Gene’s part, that he was unaware he was an intrinsic part of.  
Boy, you can really pick ‘em, Tyler, Sam thought to himself. He got up and went over to Gene, putting his head against his broad back back. Sam figured it was time for Gene to call him a girl’s name and accuse him of being a faerie. But that was fine, he was used to it.  
Gene turned to face Sam. He took his shoulders in his hands. “I’m not tryin’ to drag you into a bad situation, boy,” Gene said in a rough voice. “It’s been years, since I felt what I believe I feel for you. I love Ray, but like a brother—well, except for the fucking—but you know what I mean. I really do care for yeh. Enough...enough to tell yeh all this truth.”  
Sam reached up and caressed Gene’s stubbled cheek. He looked down at Sam with stricken eyes. “”I’ve ‘ad no shortage of sex in me life, since me marriage went all pear-shaped,” Gene whispered. “But I can honestly say, I’ve not known much love in that time.”  
Sam felt his heart seize at Gene’s words. Sam Tyler wrapped his arms around Gene Hunt. He wanted to protect the big lug, sap that he was, to bask in Gene’s warmth and guard him from the burden of his pain.  
What was to come would not be easy, for either of them. First would come the inevitable wresting of Gene from the diabolical control of The Missus. Sam found himself blaming her for the guilt - ridden mass of confused impulses that Gene was, a woman he had never met. Gene was, by cultural manufacture, deeply closeted. And it would be quite a few years yet before the British Gay Rights movement made a public life of any sort possible. Maybe they could move to Seattle and open an antique store, and await the arrival of Grunge in high style, a pair of rich old English queens.  
But enough of fantasy. Until the time came, they would have to be circumspect. But looking up into great, pale green eyes, Sam thought that waiting was a sacrifice he could make.  
They held each other a long time. “We’ll be okay,” Sam said, and it was an oath to the man he loved, and a promise to himself.  
Gene kissed Sam, and it was the first of many non - steamy - but - very - genuine kisses they would come to share.  
“But what about Ray?” Gene asked, his question acquiescing a certain amount of control - of - destiny over to Sam.  
Sam thought briefly. “Have you ever thought of a house in the country?” he asked. When Gene merely stared at him, Sam waved aside his first answer. “We’ll need to talk, all three of us, sometime soon.”  
Gene made a low rumble in his chest. The thought of dialogue with Sam and Ray was not a pleasant one. But Gene thought of a prospect that pleased him a great deal more. He jerked his thumb at the ‘X’ shaped cross against the wall.  
“What are the odds of me getting you on that tonight?” he asked darkly.  
Sam smiled. “Good, I think. If you ask nicely.”  
Gene grinned. “Oh, don’t worry. I can ask real nice-like,” Gene said, pleasure enriching his tone.

 

fin p>


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